


The Structure of a Colorful Pattern

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst and Humor, Anxiety, Cuddling & Snuggling, Discussion of Grif joining army for structure, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Feels, Friendship, Happy Ending, Lowkey discussion of Grif having OCD, M/M, Mentions of sex but no explicit scenes, Nightmares, Set on Chorus post the war, Set post s17, discussion of trauma, lots of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 12:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20892170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: In which Simmons and Grif are a couple, Simmons gets a sexy confidence, and Grif becomes the anxious one.





	The Structure of a Colorful Pattern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [creatrixanimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatrixanimi/gifts).

> Creatrix, my dear dear friend, for one I'm writing something where no one dies. So yeah, this is new, for us at least, but it's pretty much a discussion of the character development we've discussed in our endless chats together. So I hope you have a wonderful day and I hope you like this piece!

The lasagna is cold by this point. The fork rests neatly on the plate, and Grey has folded the napkin but is yet to touch the food.

“You know, I actually don’t offer couples therapy,” she says and sends a pointed glance in the direction of Grif’s hands. “But I do have a specialization in PTSD.”

Grif stops drumming his fingers against his cup of coffee. “I’m not doing therapy,” he says and raises the mug to his lips to silence himself.

“Oh.” Even without her helmet, Doctor Grey has an ability to keep her face unreadable. He suspects that it’s a learned skill after delivering too many bad news through her career. “That’s a surprise considering how you come to me for emotional guidance.”

“That isn’t what’s going on here.”

“Pray tell me, what are you doing here, Grif?”

The hospital is buzzing even though it’s lunch break. But it’s different now. During the war, the medical wings were always plagued by chaos, by screaming and crying and the smell of burned flesh. Plenty of bad stuff still happens in General Doyle’s General Hospital – it is, after all, a hospital – but gunshots and land mines and torture are no longer the main culprit.

“Just informing you that the cafeteria is serving lasagna today,” Grif says and leans back in the hospital chair. The plastic creaks. “I, as a concerned citizen, made sure you wouldn’t miss such a quality dish. And then we so happened to talk about feelings and stuff along the way.”

Grey holds a pen instead of the fork. “How thoughtful of you.”

“They should double their cheese layers, though.”

“Cheddar or parmesan?” Grey asks with a slight twitch of her lips. He’s pretty sure it’s a smile.

“I’m a cheddar man.”

She nods. “A classic choice.”

“Parmesan won’t melt the same way. But you know what really kick? Cheddar _and _mozzarella.” Grif makes jazz-hands for emphasis. “Also, people shouldn’t add so many layers. Only cheese. Not the pasta. Too many layers make it hard to reach the, uhm, actual flavor.”

“Is that a food metaphor?” Grey asks and raises a dark, thin eyebrow. Her left hand is holding a notebook now.

“I’m just saying that some layers are overrated,” Grif says. His fingers are drumming against the table now, he realizes, and he clenches them into fists to keep them still.

Grey is showing off her white teeth; it is a smile, at least. “While I find this cheese debate entertaining-“

“Have you even tried mozzarella?”

“-I must insist we return to the core of the matter,” she says. She’d been surprised when he first came to her, interrupting her much needed break, but now it’s like she knows exactly what to say. Her voice is perfectly even as she asks, “Why are you so sure that Simmons will break up with you?”

Grif wants to answer. He isn’t that stupid; he knew what he was getting himself into by coming here. He’d even tried to prepare for it. But now his voice is missing, hiding somewhere alongside his dignity.

“You can use a food metaphor,” Grey offers helpfully.

He inhales and keeps his hands perfectly still. “Everyone loves Oreos, right?”

“Personally, I find them overrated.”

“Okay, so maybe not everyone. But some like them and think they are good. They even say they love them. But then you discover the Oreo Mega Stuff pack, and no one says no to extra filling. The regulars just don’t cut it. So you ditch them.”

The click of her pen echoes inside the break room. “And you believe yourself to be an ordinary Oreo,” Grey asks him.

“I’m not talking about me here,” Grif says and frowns. “I’m just saying that you’d pick an extra stuffed Oreo over a Noreo every day.”

He knows this is the truth because it’s logic. And because he has a fondness for that white stuff.

“What makes you feel like you aren’t enough?” Grey asks him next.

“This isn’t about me.”

“So it’s about Simmons?”

Grif bites the inside of his cheek. He thinks about Simmons – or more importantly, his eyes.

He’s seen the look in them, brief and raw, before the other man had turned his head to shield it from his view. Grif had seen the agony in his eyes. And recognized the pain.

It’s a special kind. Sorta dull. The type that just digs deeper. It isn’t a flashing agony, as if Grif had stabbed him. Or like a bullet wound. Grif knows that because he’s been shot before. But the body is strange like that – if the wound is bad enough, the adrenalin will numb it. It’s not like you can start and complain about the bullet in you when two of your teammates are down and Sarge isn’t answering-

This sort of pain is smaller. Like an infected toe. No one can complain about an infected toe. It’s not grave enough to have the medic look at it. But the moment you have an infected toe and you stub it against something, it’s the worst pain possible. But you keep your mouth shut about it. You don’t speak about the stupid toe, even if it hurts, because it’s not that big of a deal.

So Simmons doesn’t speak of the times Grif rejected him, and Grif doesn’t speak of his swollen toes.

He’s about to open his mouth to protest when Grey’s watch makes a funny sound. “Oh shoot,” she says. In a flash she’s left her chair. “My break’s over. I got an infected appendix ready to burst waiting for me. It’s nice to treat something that isn’t caused by bullets or grenades.” She’s at the doorway now, just taking the time to turn her head and stare at him. “I hate to cut it off here. Maybe we can book you a proper appointment.”

“I’m not doing therapy!” Grif calls after her.

She comes to a halt, then, and sends him a knowing smile. It’s more gentle than creepy, for once. “Well, perhaps they’re serving lasagna again tomorrow,” she says and winks.

* * *

Grif is a cat person. He curls in on himself when he tries to sleep, and he makes sure he chooses the most soft and warm napping spot. He doesn’t follow orders. He wants to sleep and eat, and while he shows affection when it’s real, it happens on his own terms.

Simmons, however, is a dog. He can learn tricks, and he loves performing them. He’ll perform them to the letter. He loves authority. He’s loyal as hell, he’s adorable, and he has an unconscious tendency to make sad puppy eyes when rejected.

Also, he’s right at the door the moment Grif steps into the apartment.

“Where have you been?” he asks him and helps him get out of his jacket.

Grif shakes the bag in front of his face. “Sandwiches,” he answers.

“I just ordered pizza,” Simmons says and frowns, as if that can be counted as a problem. As his boyfriend, it’s Grif’s job to make sure he’s not distressed.

Grif sends him a smile that he knows Simmons has to return. “Oh, well, then we have dessert.”

They stay in Simmons’ apartment because it’s the cleanest. Even after they’d publicly announced their relationship with the help of Palomo’s gossip blog, they’d never really moved in. Simmons thinks it’s to take it slow, but Grif knows the truth – it’s his secret.

But it basically counts as living together. Some habits are hard to break, and _somehow _all the Reds are living in the same damn apartment building.

So much for a peaceful life on the rebuilt Chorus.

Sarge is their neighbor.

Grif is pretty sure he’s being punished for crimes he didn’t know he’d committed. Oh, and Donut is their other neighbor, which means the walls are constantly shaking with the bass of Britney Spears songs.

Grif’s apartment is just across the hall, but Simmons has the best couch and the largest tv. So that’s what they do most days of the week; celebrating their new happy life together by binge-watching movies and series.

The controller rests in Grif’s hand tonight. He flips through their choices and hesitates at the one that seems to have the biggest amount of explosions.

“We’ve already seen that one,” Simmons argues.

“Can it handle a rewatch?”

It can, apparently, and they spend that evening criticizing the use of CGI. Simmons is in the middle of a rant about its inaccurate portrayal of gunshot wounds when Grif’s phone vibrates.

“Huh.”

Simmons turns his head to stare at him with curious, green eyes. “What?”

“Kai’s convinced Tucker to get the band to play at her concert,” Grif says while sending Tucker a thumbs up. He isn’t really worried; even if he’s out of his musical shape, no one will hear him anyway. Carolina’s singing voice will steal all the attention.

Plus, Kai has been talking about this concert for weeks now. She’s so excited that her smile is wider than he can remember it being before. One thing is attending concerts – and Kai has done that a ton of times before – but this time she’s arranging it, and she’s doing a hell of the job. Of course he’ll be there to help out in anyway possible, even if it requires him on a stage.

“Really?” Simmons says. His cheeks redden before he dares to ask, “Do you think that I can join you?”

Grif snorts in amusement.

“No way.”

“Oh.”

Simmons’ pouting face is a temptation that Grif can’t resist, and he kisses him on the lips and fall back against the couch. “You get to watch me from the audience. That’s something, right?”

“I do like it when you play,” Simmons admits gingerly when Grif presses his thumbs into his shoulder blade, close to where skin and metal meet. Those muscles are always tense, Grif knows, and Simmons shudders under his touch.

“You get turned on by rockstars, huh,” Grif says, lips pressed against his neck, and then he helps Simmons pull off his shirt.

“Yours too,” Simmons insist.

Sarge might believe that Grif would rather die than follow an order, but here’s the trick; he’ll gladly do so if it’s worth. And letting Simmons be the top, letting Simmons fuck him – that’s worth it.

Plus, there’s no stuttering in bed. There’s no hesitation. They’re past that point, know each other too well. Simmons has enough confidence to take the lead, and Grif lets him. He is the lazy one, after all.

Simmons’ room is hot, and the sweat mixes between the two of them, and it reminds Grif of Blood Gulch; the air is hot, the rest of the world is far away, it’s just the two of them, sharing a room, touching, staring at each other-

It’d been simpler back then.

At least, the nights had been simpler back then.

Like this, pressed comfortably against Simmons’ metal parts, Grif can forget the buzzing in his head, the one that spreads beneath his skin until it reaches his hands. The thing is that when you are too busy just _feeling _you don’t have the time to _think_.

It stops when the cold water hits him. Grif runs a hand through his hair, lets the water rinse it. Simmons will join him soon; he doesn’t like being dirty for long. Once upon a time, Grif would insist on staying in bed, to cuddle for just an hour longer, but now he rushes to the bathroom to finish his shower before Simmons’ metal foot clinks against the tiles.

“I left some warm water for you,” he says and leaves with a brief kiss on Simmons’ lips.

It’s so quick that Simmons isn’t given the chance to follow him. “Grif?” he calls out after him.

But he’s already left. He doesn’t want to see the hurt in his eyes, and he doesn’t want to explain. He can’t do either.

It’s not a surprise by now, it’s a routine.

Yet, Simmons will always call for him.

Grif shifts the weight on his feet in front of his own apartment door before coming to the conclusion that he isn’t ready to face his own bed yet. The buzzing is stronger than ever, leaving his fingers twitching.

It’s time for a smoke.

He remembers a time where Chorus has been a mix of wasted plains, bombed buildings, untamed jungle, enemy territory, and bloodied battlefields. It’s strange to see it alive. A city rose from the wreckage faster than his own morning wood, and now Grif is staring at people out of armor, billboards, skyscrapers, taxis, blinking lights, busy roads, bars, shops, clubs, life.

It occurs to Grif that he’s feeling like a tourist. That he’s observing something he isn’t a part of it.

That’s wrong. He’s done so many things wrong lately. And this should be easy.

Hell, he’d been the one to vote for Chorus in the first place. They had to find a home now, after the latest adventure was over, and Grif had no desire to return to Iris. Ever.

And it only seemed fair to settle down in the place they’d made livable.

When a police car comes to a halt in front of him, Grif briefly fears that they’d put up a ban on cigarettes or something. It takes him too long to recognize Bitters who is unfairly tall with his armor on.

“Yo.”

“Hey.”

It takes less than a minute for Bitters to drop his stupid helmet and accept one of Grif’s cigarettes. There’d been a moment, for what felt like such a long time ago, where Grif had wondered if they’d ever make it to a point like this, after the war.

“Night shift?” Grif asks and exhales smoke.

Bitters shrugs. It’s weird; back when he’d been Grif’s lieutenant he’d seemed so young. Now he’s _old_. Not in the way that Grif feels – worn and weary – but there’s an actual trace of a beard on the man’s face. “It pays more,” Bitters says. “And I get to sleep through the day.”

“Huh.”

They walk down the street where Bitters points out his favorite pizza places. Some of them are even open by this hour. Chorus impresses Grif, even now. “So, have you stopped a robbery or something?” he asks while chewing on a piece of pepperoni.

“Nah,” Bitter says. “Nothing really happens.” One hand is holding a smoke, the other is holding a slice of pizza. “The main thing we do is to tell people that nothing has happened. It’s even more boring than it sounds.”

Grif can feel himself raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Bitters takes the last bite of his pizza and raises his cigarette in its stead. “A tail pipe made a noise yesterday,” he says and inhales. “Which, you know, wasn’t a big deal. Except people believed it was sniper fire or something, and we had to step in before someone could actually pull a trigger. But it’s alright, I guess. You can’t complain about a job where you just go around telling people to chill.”

Grif needs a minute to process this so he mirrors Bitters and blows smoke instead of talking. Scars run deep. He knows that.

Very well.

“Beats being a soldier,” he says and shrugs. He wonders what he’d have done if he’d heard the tail pipe. He is throughout convinced that he would have believed it to be a gunshot, however, he doesn’t think he’d have panicked. He’s spent too many years with Sarge to be frightened by the noise of wasted ammo.

“Why did you sign up?” Bitters asks him. His dark eyes are alive with curiosity, like a cat walking to the treat ahead of him.

Something jolts inside Grif’s chest at the question. He’d have expected it from Grey – asking questions is like fifty percent of her job; the rest is the messy and bloody part – but not Bitters who take pride in not giving a shit.

The irony in all of this is how he thinks Bitters might be the one to understand him.

But habits are strong. And among them are bad habits; the ones that Kai tells him to quit, the ones that just showed up after a while. Steal food, store food, eat food. Keep your stash full. Keep your hands clean. Count to three. Leave the things where they are on the floor, don’t touch them, let them rot, let things stay the way they are, don’t move, don’t change, _structure_.

One of Grif’s habits is to deflect any questions that might crave a real answer. “Why did _you _sign up?” he asks instead and points at Bitters with his cigarette.

To his credit, Bitters surprises him.

“Mom died when I was five. Along with Louis. My brother. Dad died when I was thirteen. I joined because of him.”

He shares his life story so easily, without hesitation, just a single flash of hurt in his eyes before he turns his head away. It’s been a long time, Grif knows that, and maybe Bitters has changed, too.

Grif feels breathless as he forces himself to keep his tone light. “Let me guess – big military guy?”

“Yeah.” Bitters lights another cigarette. He doesn’t even ask Grif if he can take it, but he lets him anyway.

“Hmm. I’d expect you to go against social pressure.”

“I did. He didn’t think I’d make it one month in the army. I proved it wrong. So suck on that.”

Grif swallows. The smoke makes his throat feel raw and numb at the same time. “Huh.”

Bitters is off the hook now. They both know that, and Bitters’ expression is smug as he turns to face him. “So why did you join?”

There’s no derailing the question now.

But Grif realizes he would have told the truth anyway.

“Believe it or not, but I joined to get some structure in my life.”

A bitter snort escapes Bitters’ mouth. Coming from him, it might as well be laughter. “How did that work out for you?”

“Not that good,” Grif says and blows smoke towards the dark sky.

* * *

Simmons’ apartment was quiet when he walked past it. Grif didn’t stay for long, just enough time to open his own door.

There’s silence, and he hates that. Silence doesn’t last; silence is something that only exists because something else is lacking. It’s the absence of noise, and noise will always come, because nothing stays silent, nothing stays the same. Something will always wake you up with a bang, something will break or slam.

Living with Red Team, you don’t get used to silence.

Staying on Iris, you do.

And you learn to hate it.

Silence just means you have to get ready for it to break, and Grif doesn’t need more tension in his body. He turns on the radio, lies down, drums his fingers against the mattress, closes his eyes and tries to imagine Simmons’ heartbeat in the rhythmic pattern of the bass that makes his bones tremble.

* * *

“I could prescribe some pills to you,” Grey offers him the next day when Grif returns once more in her lunch break. They serve meatballs today; that has to be a downgrade. No cheese today.

That just makes him feel more like shit.

“Nah,” he says. His fingers are restless again. It hadn’t been the plan to come here. It’s just a rushed choice he’d made in the morning when he’d forced himself out of the bed with stiff and heavy limbs, red eyes and a pounding headache. He hadn’t been able to face Simmons and see the damage he’d caused again. Grey had somehow seemed like the safer choice. “I usually have the other problem. Sleeping too much.” He tries to crack a grin at her but his lips are too numb. “I shouldn’t need help.”

“Everyone needs help,” Grey says automatically, as if it is a matter of act. “That’s why I get a paycheck.” Her smile is real, almost contagious. “If you’re losing sleep over Simmons-“

“This isn’t Simmons’ fault,” Grif says quickly. He presses a thumb against his forehead. “This is my messed up head. I mean, that’s the whole problem.”

Grey has found her pen and notebook again. She’s crouched over it as she begins to scribble down notes. “You’re a couple,” she states.

“Yeah,” Grif says and feels his cheeks burn. It stills feels strange, saying it out loud like that. Sure, they’d always been a thing. Grif & Simmons, tm. But Simmons would have died from his own embarrassment if someone had indicated a romantic relationship a few years ago. Now- now things have changed. “We are.”

“Have you considered sharing your burden with him?”

“He’s smart,” Grif says proudly. “He’ll figure it out on his own.”

“And that’s what you’re scared of.”

“Simmons is-“ Grif stops himself. There are too many words ready at the tip of his tongue. Simmons is so many things; so many good things, and so many flaws as well. Grif know them all; he _knows _Simmons, even if he is the one hiding secrets in the relationship. “Who are we kidding – he used to be the biggest mess. You didn’t know him back in Blood Gulch, but believe me. He’s grown. _So much_. He doesn’t need Sarge anymore, he doesn’t barf when a girl talks to him, he can and will give orders without a stutter, you wouldn’t believe how ripped the nerd is, he can go all scary with knives, and he doesn’t need me.”

Grey clicks her pen. “He chose you.”

“That isn’t the same and you know it.”

She scribbles down a note. And another. And another. There’s no music playing in the break room, and the walls keep out the noise from the busy hallways. So Grif focuses on the sound from the pen, tries to find calm in it.

“Do you want to break up with Simmons?” Grey asks him next.

“No.”

“Do you want Simmons to break up with you?”

“…No,” Grif says and hates himself for the hesitation. He sighs before slapping his palms against his thighs in defeat. “I love the guy. In a, well, I guess now official homo way.”

Grey’s blue eyes are piercing. “So what is your problem, Grif?”

There it is. The question Grif has been asking himself ever since they moved into the apartment building to start a new life.

But Grey is the professional. That’s a good thing. Maybe now he can find an answer.

“Simmons has grown, but I’ve done, like, the opposite of that. I’ve shrunk? But not literally? You know what I mean.” Grif sighs heavily and focuses on his hands. There is dirt underneath his nails, he notices, despite how he showers every night now, before fleeing from Simmons. That’s his new bad habit. “I’m a mess. And Simmons isn’t.” It comes out bitter, but he doesn’t want to be bitter. He’s proud, so fucking proud – of Simmons. “And- I love the guy. And I-“ He can’t be bitter. He is not _allowed _to be, it’d be wrong, _he knows better_. “It’d be selfish not to let him have the best. And that isn’t me.”

Grey doesn’t say anything.

There is just heavy breathing and the never-ending scribbling.

Grif realizes what that means. “…Are you taking notes of that?”

“Maybe.”

The chair creaks when he leaves it. “Holy shit, I have to get out of here,” he says as he leaves. One thing is the truth leaving his mouth. Another thing is it written down for anyone to read, anyone to analyse.

“Grif-“

“I’m not doing therapy!” Grif calls out and briefly waves his hand as goodbye. “Enjoy the meatballs!”

He hurries his way past people in wheelchairs, people in bandages, people with crutches. A few of them stare and wave, and Grif ignores the one request for an autograph. He hasn’t heard from Simmons all morning, and he isn’t sure whether that’s a good sign or not. He’d learned to live with Simmons’ need to keep track of their whereabouts. Hell, he even thinks he shares that anxiety now.

If he’d known how Simmons had plan to spend the morning, he wouldn’t have been surprised to stumble into the redhead at the entrance hall.

But he’s pretty sure that the reason why Simmons is here is because he’s the one who’s been keeping track of Grif.

Still, the green eyes widen at the sight of him.

“What are you doing here?” they both ask in perfect unison.

The crowds split around them, keeping their distance but still watching in curiosity.

“A mole,” Grif lies.

Simmons’ face grows noticeably paler. “Oh god, you haven’t said. Did it look weird?” His hands are already reaching for him; either going for a hug or to literally tear off his clothes until he can see the damage himself. But there’s a crowd and while Simmons has no problem declaring Grif his boyfriend in public any longer, physical intimacy is still the next line to be crossed. 

“Like the state of Nebraska,” Grif says and nods grimly.

The horror is causing Simmons’ expression to crumble, turning it into exasperation instead. “It was on my skin, wasn’t it? I told you to wear at least three layers of sun screen!”

“I’m not blaming your weirdass freckles,” Grif says to keep the lie under control. “Anyway, it was nothing. So forget about it.”

The frown doesn’t fade away from his forehead. “Are you sure?”

“Dude, Grey just checked me out. I was just being paranoid.” But maybe the frown isn’t about Grif. Just that thought is almost enough to make Grif himself frown as well. “Your turn.”

Simmons hesitates and visibly flinches. He turns his head away as he struggles to find the words. “I, uhm…”

“Holy shit, is something wrong with you?” Grif asks. His tone is worried, he can hear that himself, but he is too baffled to keep up a façade.

Simmons’ hand clasps around his wrist and drags him towards the exit. “No. No, it’s not _me_,” he says in a hushed voice.

“Then who is it?” Grif asks. His heart beats faster when Simmons refuses to answer. “Shit, it’s Sarge, isn’t it? They always said that aggression is a sign of dementia, and who are kidding, the man is _old_-“

“Sarge is fine!” Simmons insists and his voice doesn’t break which means he’s telling the truth. “No one is sick.”

“So what is it?” Simmons’ face, red in shame, turns away from him again. Grif is the one pulling at his sleeve now. “Dude, you have to tell me. It’s one the rules for the whole couple-ship. No secrets. Right?”

He can see Simmons’ face crack before he admits defeat. A sigh leaves his mouth, but his eyes are… different? Not sad. Instead they look oddly happy, out of all fucking things?

“Okay. But you can’t tell anyone.” Simmons inhales again and the corner of his lips creep upwards. He looks around, making sure no one overhears them as they walk down the street. “Jensen wanted me to be there for her scans.”

“Scans?” Grif raises an eyebrow. “…She didn’t break a collarbone, right?”

Simmons is truly smiling now. “No.”

It hits him like a brick to the face. He can practically smell a dirty baby diaper already.

“Holy shit.” Happy news are strange to accept. They’re more used to the bad ones. And bad news require action. To do something about it. Happy news are just there so you can jump around awkwardly and smile and congratulate someone. “It’s Palomo’s, right?” he asks and Simmons nods. “Damn, didn’t think the kid had it in him.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly planned, but they are very excited! Palomo was there too, but Katie knows he has a tendency to faint at the smell of hospitals, so she needed some extra support.” His cheeks are bright red again. “She, uhm… They wanted to name him after one of their Captains, but since Tucker already has Junior, they decided to choose-“

“Oh my god, the baby is gonna be called Dick?!” Grif laughs so loud that bystanders turn around. “That’s glorious.”

Simmons is hunched over, slapping Grif’s arm to make him quiet down. “Shut up.”

Giggles erupt around them, loud and feminine, and Grif trace the noise back to a group of teenage girls. They’re young; around the age the lieutenants had been when they’d been shoved into their hands. They are playing with their hair, smiling and whispering, eyes focused on Simmons.

His metal arm glints in the sun.

_Oh_.

Grif slaps his ass, you know, to mark his territory, and Simmons doesn’t freeze up or glitch. He just stumbles a bit, squints, and then throws an arm around Grif as they walk home.

It’s good, Grif thinks, this should be so good.

They focus on the good news the rest of the day, discussing the possibility of twins and whether or not Palomo will faint in the delivery room (he will). The happiness is like a cloud, it masks the problems for a while, keeps them busy, and no one asks too many questions.

They cook dinner together. Grif is the best chef but Simmons chooses the dish, a simple pasta with vegetables, and Grif makes sure to add extra cheese and garlic when Simmons is too busy reading the recipe he found online.

“It’s crazy, huh,” Simmons says when they collapse into the couch together, ready for another movie night. “The Lieutenants starting a family.”

Grif licks remains of tomato sauce off his lip. “Yeah. I didn’t think they’d live so far. They’re so scrawny. I mean, Matthews _almost _kicked the bucket.” There’s a twinge of guilt in his stomach; the image of Matthews in his hospital bed, shallowed by white blankets.

But he turned out to be fine.

They’re fine.

Everything is just fine now.

The itch is back.

“How’s he?” Simmons asks as he reaches for the remote.

“Fine,” Grif says and tries not to choke on the bitterness of the word. “He has Kimball’s ass to kiss now.” From what he’s heard, Matthews is enjoying his life as the president’s secretary. But Grif hasn’t made a big effort to reach out to him.

Simmons lets his finger run against the buttons on the remote. They’re playing with them, keeping themselves busy. He’s thinking about something, then. Grif knows that frown too well.

So he leans back and waits for Simmons to cut to the chase.

The cyborg breathes in deeply before he says, “I was thinking-“

“Oh geez,” Grif cuts him off with a fake, teasing grin. He isn’t sure he’s ready for this conversation, but he can’t leave now. Not like this. “Alright, I’m ready. Let me hear your latest theory.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just…” His eyes flicker back and forth, unwilling to settle on him. “We get to have a future, too. And since we’ve sorta settled down and there isn’t any war to fight or- or paradoxes to fix and we’ve grown bored of _Star Wars_, maybe we should try to get a normal life? With jobs and stuff?”

It’s Grif’s turn to frown. “_And stuff_?” he repeats dully.

“Okay, I just meant the job part,” Simmons says. He’s speaking slowly, measuring his moves. He’s been planning for this talk to take place. “We can’t hang out in the apartment forever,” he says next, voice even. “Grey mentioned that she needs new researchers, and that sounds like, I don’t know, I might do well at? Maybe? I dunno.”

“Yeah, that sounds like you,” Grif says and manages to find a real smile to give to him. Simmons deserves that future. It’d fit him too well. “Getting paid to be a nerd.”

Simmons smiles in return but he’s still cautious, keeping his movements gentle and his tone casual as he tries, “And maybe you’ll…” He trails off, trying to find a better phrase at the sight of Grif’s displeased frown. “You’re good with cars! Or kids! You could help-“

Grif isn’t _good _with things.

There are things he’s done a lot, things that have become a habit, things he’s been forced to practice. Those are skills he’s been forced to get, just enough to get by.

That’s called survival. That’s called keeping yourself alive in a military job.

But it isn’t the same as being a taxi driver or a babysitter. Grif can’t see himself in those jobs. He can’t really see himself in anything. There’s a future ahead, sure, but it’s all muddy, and he’s pretty sure it’ll be chaotic once the vail has been lifted.

“I mean, if it lasts,” he says and shrugs.

Simmons’ façade falters. “Why- why wouldn’t it?”

“I dunno.”

“Just-“ There’s another sigh, and then Simmons runs his metal hand down his face. He looks as tired as Grif feels. “What are you talking about, Grif?” he finally asks. It’s a question he’s been trying to ask for weeks. A question that Grif has done a good job of avoiding.

“Nothing,” Grif says as he tries his luck again. “Forget it.”

“What’s_ it_?” Simmons turns off the television and shifts in the couch so he can stare directly at him. He looks desperate, hurt. The instinct to comfort him grows stronger inside Grif but he _can’t_. Not when he’s the cause of all this. “Is _it _us? Oh god. Do you want to break up with me?”

“No!” Grif exclaims. He tries out to grab the metal hand, resting it in his lap. “Shit, no! Don’t freak out!”

He strokes the shiny surface in circular motion, Simmons watching him carefully until the cyborg finally inhales to calm down.

“Okay. Okay, good,” he says and a shudder runs through his body. “Then what is _it_?”

Grif owes him the truth. Hell, he owes him more than that, more than he could ever give. But he can start with the truth, even if he hasn’t figured the whole thing out himself yet.

But he’ll try.

“The whole peace thing? I mean, this is good and all, but what’s our record? Ten months. Something batshit crazy is bound to happen, and since the things keep getting crazier, we are going to have to beat freaking time travel, so good luck trying to predict what we’ll have to deal with next.” His chest hurts, plagued by the sense of breathlessness as he continues, “Because, face it, we’ll have to deal with something.”

The hurt is gone from Simmons’ expression. It’s been replaced with something else, something Grif doesn’t want either. It’s pity and it’s worry, thick and condescending. “Grif-“

“It won’t last,” Grif’s mouth says for him. “So I’m just gonna enjoy the heck out of it while it lasts. I’m good.”

Simmons’ hand rests on his knee, squeezing it. “Grif.”

“Seriously, Simmons. _I’m good._”

“Grif.”

He can’t deal with his worry. It’s something he should fix, too. A problem he should deal with because Simmons is too anxious. He’d fret about too much, spend too many nights restless about things they couldn’t control anyway.

Simmons used to be an anxious mess and Grif used to comfort him.

But things have changed.

“Look, Simmons, not everything is about you,” Grif says in an attempt to reassure him.

Simmons’ eyes snap open. Hurt bleeds from them.

It’s Grif’s fault.

“No. Look. Urgh,” Grif tries, failing again. “What I’m saying is, you’re not the problem.”

“But there is a problem,” Simmons concludes. The apartment is cold now, for the first time since Grif basically moved in.

It’s quiet. Simmons is saying nothing, and the tv is off. He can’t hear the streets beneath him, hell, even Donut is being a silent neighbor right now.

“Dude, can we just _not_?” Grif begs.

“You never stay,” Simmons says, crumbling before him. “And now- now you’re wondering if things will last, and I can’t help but feel-“

“I just said it isn’t you,” Grif whispers. The silence is stronger than his voice.

“Then it’s you,” Simmons says, as logical as ever. “And you won’t tell me what’s going on.”

The couch they always sit on is a dark beige. Simmons chose that color so it wouldn’t get stained. He’d considered leather, but they’d also talked about getting a cat, and he doesn’t want scratches either. Dark beige is a safe choice. The couch hadn’t been too expensive. It’d been practical.

The problem is that when you value something, you risk ruining it. Like mom’s white fabric couch, back when she’d declared that they lived in a mess but deserved something nice. When she’d finally had the money to fulfill her wishes (Dexter knew how she’d earned that money – except he didn’t, he _didn’t _know what she’d done, because he shouldn’t, he wasn’t allowed to know, wasn’t supposed to, so he didn’t, he didn’t know, at all.) she’d bought that couch and run her hands up and down the stainless fabric in gentle caresses. So when it’d become stained with small colorful handprints, she’d freaked and yelled and cried and told Dexter to be ashamed of himself (in truth, Kai had been the one to play with the paint, but Dexter was supposed to watch her, so it was his fault anyways).

Grif can live with stained furniture. He can live with messes and dirt. He doesn’t care for it.

But he cares for _this_; movie nights here, Simmons’ touch, Simmons’ lips, Simmons’ laughter and Simmons’ comfort; and he is wrecked by the fear of fucking it up.

It’s so easy when it’s so precious to him.

“Grif,” Simmons says as Grif practically leaps away from him, stumbling towards the door.

Thankfully, Simmons doesn’t follow him. Maybe he knows him too well. Maybe he is being generous. Or maybe he’s so hurt he’s retreated into himself.

Grif seeks comfort in the familiarity of his own room, the organized mess, his belonging lying exactly where he’d abandoned them on the floor. Nothing really changes here. He spends most of his time in Simmons’ apartment. That’s where he lives.

This is just a hiding spot.

He turns on the radio, finding a tune he knows, one of those rock bands Kai would play non-stop as a kid. He falls back into his bed, lending on a pile of blankets and snack wrappers. The bass is a quick steady pattern that he tries to turn into his heartbeat.

It’s not calming, but it’s a rhythm. A structure. It’ll do for now.

There’s a bigger mess left inside Simmons’ room, but he’ll fix that tomorrow. He hurt him, but he’ll come up with something. Something big, something that won’t just make Simmons forgive him but keep him happy afterwards.

He should be more of a romantic. He can rub Simmons’ back and make him laugh, but this needs to be better. Dinner, maybe? Or buy something he likes? Except Simmons is too smart to be bribed like that, and Grif should know this, he shouldn’t be stupid enough to think that it’d work-

The door slams open, loud enough to make the walls shake, and then Sarge marches in with three quick steps, cocks his shotgun, and blasts the radio into smithereens.

The sound is deafening.

When he can finally hear again, Grif is staring at Sarge, mouth wide agape, watching the old man chuckle to himself.

“Seriously?!” Grif screams when he’s finally found his voice. “You’re goddamn insane!”

Sarge raises his chin in a challenge. “And who are you to talk?”

Grif’s jaw drops.

“Buy some goddamn headphones. Or thicker walls,” Sarge snorts. “Actually, the latter is preferred due to how many times a day you two are shaking the sheets-“

Grif’s heartbeat is gone. It exploded with the radio. “I’m not discussing sex with you!” he shrieks before fleeing into the hallway. If Sarge had heard his music, had he heard his screams and yells too? Night after night after every stupid nightmare. Had Simmons heard, too? After all the effort Grif had gone through to keep it a secret.

He can hear Sarge’s laughter behind him. “Good. Then talk with your boyfriend. Ain’t that what those darn labels are for?”

Grif stares at Sarge. Sarge stares back.

There’s something going on here, and Grif honestly can’t tell if it’s a challenge or support, because Sarge is pretty much the definition of stubbornness and it seeps into everything he does.

He doesn’t get the chance to make the next move before Simmons shows up, quiet and pale, and sneaks a cold hand around Grif’s wrist.

“Go,” Sarge tells them and rests his weapon over his shoulder.

There’s a brief glance of Donut, peeking at them through the door he’s slightly cracked open, but then Simmons leads them back into his apartment for privacy.

“I want to help,” he says after dumping Grif on his bed. There are dried tear tracks on his face but otherwise he’s perfectly composed. “But you need to sleep.” He disappears for a moment, allowing Grif to sink deeper into the mattress, before he returns with a couple of pills in his palm. “These aren’t that strong, and I’ve checked, and they shouldn’t mess with your medication. And you- you can sleep on the couch if you want-“

“No,” Grif gasps. “No way.”

Simmons’ mouth twitches. “Okay,” he says and exhales. “Just wanted to make sure.”

Grif swallows the pills dry and reaches for his phone when he feels it vibrate. There’s a text from Bitters. It includes a screenshot of a report of a gunshot at their address, with Bitters’ question underneath; _dat you?_

He quickly replies it’s nothing, just Sarge’s trigger finger, and hopefully that’ll save Bitters a trip here, and them a visit from the police.

The pillow still smells of Simmons, of old books and motor oil. It helps numb his skin and relax his brain. Or maybe that’s just the pills.

“Grif,” Simmons says as he settles down next to him.

He’s gone when Grif wakes up.

A glance towards the clock shows that he’s slept for longer than he can remember in the last month. But his body still feels heavy, weighed down by his own limbs, trying to make him stay in bed. The restlessness is gone, though, and Grif prefers the numbness. He would have obeyed his body’s wishes, but a need to check on Simmons has him stand up.

There’s a note in the kitchen, letting him know that Simmons had decided not to wake him up in the morning when he’d left for the meeting with Grey about the new job. There are a few overwritten lines at the end of the paper, as if Simmons had been about to sign it before changing his mind. It’d be too formal. They’re a couple now, after all. They’re intimate in a way they’re still trying to figure out.

When Simmons will be home, Grif will be out for band practice. That’s fine. That leaves him time to figure out what to do.

He’s still contemplating what to bring Simmons as an apology when he strums his guitar and realizes it needs to be tuned. They’ve gathered in Carolina’s place that’s surprisingly big and surprisingly bare. It’s like she’s still trying to figure out what she wants in her home.

Tucker is messing with the drum set and sends him a puzzled glance, “You look sadder than the stray cat Wash brought in last night. And it had fleas and everything.”

“Are you talking about Baxter?” Carolina asks. She’s cut her hair again; it begins to curl when it’s this short. “He’s cute.”

“No, this is a new one. Dennis.”

An amused snort leaves Grif. “Dude, how many cats do you have?” He’s sort of afraid of the answer.

“Six,” Tucker says and sighs. “It’s a problem, I know, but he’s acknowledged the fact that it is a problem. That’s a start. Plus, there are worse things to struggle with. Just look at Grif.”

A drum stick points at Grif who begins to pout. He only came here so he could escape Simmons. He doesn’t expect Tucker, as confident and smug as always, to understand.

Carolina… maybe. He has a feeling they’re both more alike than they believe.

“Seriously, dude, what’s going on?” Tucker asks him. “Your boyfriend came to me for sex advice. Whatever is going on is _bad _if we’ve reached that point.”

“Do you know what’s bad?” Grif says instead, smooth and in control.

They both glance at Carolina, just briefly, sharing the same thought. Then Tucker shrugs and says, “No?”

“Your drumming solo,” Grif spits at him. “It sounds like you have a personal vendetta against the thing.”

“You’re the one strangling your own strings.”

“I, for one, feel confident with my talents.” Carolina steps between them, sending them both a stern but concerned glance. It rests on Grif for too long. “So let’s practice.”

They don’t sound good. They’re a mess of missed notes, out of tune instruments and clumsy fingers. But, hey, they mostly just formed the band for the looks. And to discuss band names (the current one is _Roses and Violets_, but it sounds like a gay poem from the 1800’s, and Grif is pretty sure they’ll have changed it again before they enter the stage at Kai’s concert).

But playing keeps his mind busy, and so he happily strums his strings. Carolina’s singing covers his mistakes. Tucker makes a weird noise that’s supposed to imitate a crowd going wild, and Grif leans his head back and stares into the spotlight.

It sparkles.

Just like-

“Smoke break,” Grif declares and lets go of his guitar. He sees Carolina and Tucker share a glance, but the Freelancer is the only one to join him at the balcony. Their apartment building is on the top of one of the hills. You can see most of the city from here.

Grif leans over the railing, just slightly, squinting as he tries to find his own home in the distance.

“Haven’t seen you with one of these in a while,” Carolina says and nods towards his cigarette. “Nervous habit?”

He’d tried to convince her to share a smoke back on Iris but she’d refused. She’d agreed on the fishing trip, though, so he can’t complain. “I used to be like the definition of chill,” he says and exhales in a sigh. “When did I lose that?”

Carolina’s eyes, green and piercing, are looking him over. It’s more than just slightly intimidating. “Are you happy?” she asks him.

“I should be.”

“Do you love Simmons?”

That’s an easier question. “Yeah.”

“And he loves you,” Carolina says. It’s a statement, not a question.

Grif’s throat feels raw again. “I know that. I just… don’t think he should?” He raises an eyebrow before turning to her. “Please don’t go singing ‘Opposite Attract’.”

“I’d only improve it,” she says, sounding offended.

“Look, it’s already trashed for me. Simmons and Donut have collectively stolen the radio and played it too many times. Donut even planned on reshooting a music video with me and Simmons. He already had a black dress and a fur suit ready…” He shudders at the memory.

She laughs at that, and the sound is contagious. It helps, just a little.

“How would you describe Simmons?” she asks him. It occurs to him that everyone’s trying to be his therapist lately.

But he can play along. “Nerd,” Grif answers. “Smart-“

“Exactly.” Carolina reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder. It gives it a squeeze. “He wouldn’t make the wrong choice in picking you.”

Grif remembers how she’d been back when she’d asked for his help on Iris. Her body had been tense, she’d been plagued by restlessness, she’d been plagued by nightmares and grief over Church, she’d been unsure of herself and her surroundings. He’d been the one to tell her to sit down, breathe, relax, live life.

There’s an irony in that, Grif realizes as he picks up his guitar again.

* * *

“_Die Hard_?” Simmons asks in surprise when he comes home to see a prepared dinner, a movie ready on the tv and lit candles. “It isn’t Christmas-“

“Actually, Huggins’ uncle had a cameo in it,” Grif says as he practically shoves Simmons towards the couch. Sure, a romantic dinner should be at a table with a fancy, white cloth on it, but there’s a better view at the screen from the couch. “As a headlight. I wanna see who can spot him first.”

Simmons slides out of his jacket, a surprised, soft smile on his face. “Sure. Yeah, this sounds like a good idea.”

It works. They eat their spicy chicken together, tests each other who knows the quotes from memory the best. Simmons is in a happy mood, but he hasn’t said anything about the meeting. Grif doesn’t dare to ask him. That’d be the fastest way to start a conversation about last night.

So instead he leans against him and enjoys the movie.

“No way. Not sparkly enough.”

“It has to be him.”

“_No way._ I’m the one who knows weird light ball aliens the best,” Grif insists. It’s not right. It doesn’t look like Huggins at all, and Grif remembers her so well. “I’m the one who spent almost a year walking around with Huggins-“

He shuts up, but he’s too late.

“Is this about her?” Simmons asks him. He’s turned away from the television, giving him all his attention again with a gleam of understanding all over his face. “Why you’ve been acting weird?”

As Simmons straightens his back, filled by the realization, while Grif feels himself slump, shoulders hunched in a defensive position. “I don’t know.”

“Grif.”

“I feel like a pinball,” Grif finally says, giving into Simmons’ patient glance. He remembers this dialogue taking place too long ago, and yet nothing seems to have changed. He hasn’t. Even when he’s supposed to. “And now, nothing is punching me, and we’re standing still, and I should be resting, but I just feel like I’m this vibrating ball _waiting _for something fucked up to happen again and wreck it all.”

The truth has Simmons leaning backwards. “It- It isn’t wrong to feel like that-“

“But you don’t feel like that,” Grif feels the need to point out. He presses a hand against his chest. “I do.”

Simmons’ expression melts with compassion. “So I’ll help you-“

“You don’t have to do that.”

They’re uneven. Grif has fallen behind at some point. He isn’t even sure when. It must have been before Iris. Some point between scraping your team’s blood off yours armor and celebrating victory. If he’d kept up, he wouldn’t have quit back then. He wouldn’t have felt confused, torn. He would have known what he’d wanted, he would have sprung into action with Simmons, he would have been a good friend.

It’s not fair to Simmons. Not when Simmons has to be told that Grif doesn’t even like him, not when Simmons has to move on without him. And Simmons is ready to do that, he’ll step up if his friends need him, he’ll give orders if he has to.

It’s not _fair _that Grif gets to hurt Simmons, and Simmons is still sitting here, asking him what’s wrong.

“But that’s what we do,” Simmons says. “I mean, you helped me back in Blood Gulch when I was acting a bit crazy…” His metal hand reaches down to rub the old scars on his knuckles, and they both share a distant memory in that moment.

“That’s a long time ago,” Grif says and resist the urge to lean over and touch the damaged skin himself. “We’ve grown since then.”

Simmons lets out a tired chuckle. “I suppose we did.”

“You did,” Grif says and his chest spills over with pride and admiration. It’s so much better than the constant pressure that’s been haunting him. “So much.”

“You did, too.”

Grif laughs bitterly. “It’s not so long ago I thought leaving you guys would solve my problems. And we all know how much I messed up by doing that.”

“…I once buried Sarge.”

“That is a fun and very true point,” Grif admits, and his lips are tickling, threatening to smile. “But that happened in Blood Gulch. _Blood Gulch_. That’s how many seasons ago?”

“Let’s not go meta.”

Grif huffs at that and lets himself be distracted by the colors of the screen. He listens to the sound of explosions and wipes a hand against his face as there’s a brief scene with a car and its headlights.

“Huggins was way sparklier,” he says in a whisper.

The couch creaks when Simmons moves closer to him. “…You know we can talk about her. Whatever the thing is.” He takes Grif’s hands in his own and blushes at the skin-contact. “We’re a couple. It’s what we should do.”

“Yeah?” Grif says and moves his eyes away from Simmons’ burning cheeks to his frown instead. “Then how about you tell me why you’re upset.”

“Because of you,” Simmons says. “That’s- Isn’t that obvious? I’m worried and you- When you don’t come to me, it makes me feel like I’m a bad boyfriend since you don’t want me-“

“It’s not you.”

“You’ve said that.”

“Simmons, you’re amazing.” Grif huffs in amusement and digs a finger into his side, watching him squirm. “C’mon. Don’t tell me you didn’t see that group of girls gawking at you.”

Simmons’ face turns one shade redder. “That wasn’t…”

“They sure as hell weren’t looking at me.”

“…Are you jealous?” Simmons asks slowly. He sounds unsure of his own question.

“Dude, no.” The thought almost makes him laugh. The outside world wanting Simmons is not a threat; it’s a fact he’s forced himself to accept. “You deserve the looks. You’re awesome.”

“Well, you don’t have to be jealous.” Simmons almost chokes on air in his hesitation, but finally he lowers his head to hide a smirk and says, “I really should have told you this earlier, but I’m gay.”

Grif doubles over, taken by surprise by what might have been Simmons’ funniest joke ever.

Simmons pats his back while Grif tries not to die from laughter. “Oh god, I can’t believe I just joked about that,” Simmons says in horror.

Swallowing the last giggle, Grif lets the silence speak for him. _That’s how much you’ve grown_.

“You’ve grown too,” Simmons insists. “Even if you don’t think so. And even if you made some mistakes.”

“I quit.”

“And I left you behind,” Simmons says and shrugs. “S’not like I didn’t fuck up. And I- I did apologize for that, didn’t I? Oh god, did I forget? Because I’ll apologize right now-“

Grif kisses him to make him shut up. He doesn’t want Simmons’ apology. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t want to hear it. He’s the one who quit and hurt Simmons in the process, and yet Simmons is feeling bad about it.

There’s guilt gnawing at Grif’s insides and it’s making him feel sick.

“I- I got very worried. About you,” Simmons says when they’ve pulled away. There’s a drop of spit resting on his lower lip. “So I asked for help.”

“Dude, I know you went to Tucker. Which is sorta funny. Also, having sex with you rocks. It’s awesome. Unless you’re not into it?”

“_I am_. A lot,” Simmons says quickly, sparing him for the fears that would have been born in a moment of hesitation. “And I did go to Tucker. But I also went to Kai.”

“You asked my sister for sex advice?” Grif raises his eyebrow so high he fears they might just fly off his face. “I mean, knowing Kai it makes sense, but that doesn’t make it less weird-“

The blush on Simmons matches the color of his hair. “No. We just talked about, well, you.” He bites his lip before spilling another truth. “Actually, I brought lots of alcohol and got her drunk so she’d snitch. Sorry, not sorry. You were freaking me out.”

That’s a scene that Grif honestly wouldn’t mind having seen. Simmons can be manipulative, sure, but so can Kai, and she probably went through the whole thing for free alcohol.

“I used to beat up guys who’d get her drunk to get what they wanted,” he says, amused.

“Oh.”

“Relax. The worst thing you’ll get is a slap on the ass.” Grif snorts again, knowing he’ll have to text Kai about this afterwards. But his sister’s hang-over isn’t the most important thing here. “So… Did she snitch?”

“She… told me about how you’d come clean to her in the labyrinth. That you joined the army. And why you did so.”

He’d been so hopeful back then. So sure he was making the right choice.

What a fucking idiot he’d been. What a child.

And yet, he’s pretty grateful he’s ended up where he is. Isn’t he?

“Fucking structure,” Grif groans. “I was such an idiot.”

Simmons winces on his behalf. “I mean, in hindsight – yeah, probably not the best choice.”

“To be fair, I didn’t expect my Sergeant to be fucking Sarge. The only structure that man has is chaos. But I got up in the morning, so…”

That’s an accomplishment. One of the few he can be proud of. Hey, he’s survived this far! That means he beat Church!

“I like structure. A lot. I mean, sorting stuff in alphabetical order is fun.” Simmons wring his hands. “But it’s another sort of structure that you need, right?”

Grif thinks about silence and noise, about war and dried blood and dying teenagers, about messes and clean surfaces, about guilt and skin-starvation, about the itch under his skin and Simmons’ lips pressed against his neck.

“I don’t know what I what,” he admits, coming to that conclusion. “This should be structure, right? Nothing is happening? So why am I feeling like shit?”

“Because we accidently traumatized you with your stay on Iris? Because we were stuck in a war for like forever and now normal life doesn’t feel normal? Because we all have nightmares?” In the weak light of the television screen with the knowing, small smile on his lips, Simmons suddenly looks older, more tired than Grif has ever imagined him. He holds up his cyborg hand, watching his own fake fingers flex. “Those pills knocked you out, but you still kept kicking. I have a bruise on my shin to show it.”

Grif lowers his head and shame, and Simmons’ hand comes to rest on his cheek.

“I have nightmares, too,” Simmons tells him with tears in his eyes. “You don’t know because you always leave… And when we slept together, I never had them. And I’m pretty sure that was because of you.” He sniffles loudly. “I want to return the favor.”

“I’m so messed up,” Grif says as he leans into his touch. “And nothing’s even happening! It’s like a horror movie, you know. That dramatic music when they walk down the hallway and nothing’s really happening except for that music? Fucking tension… It’d be easier if we could just get it over with.”

Getting together with Simmons had seemed natural. It’d been something they’d both wanted. And not much had changed. They had always been Grif & Simmons. Now they were just Grif & Simmons with public kisses.

Their relationship was a good thing. It was his white couch; something he’d desired, something he’d worked for.

And it’d left him so, so frightened.

“I- I can’t say that nothing crazy won’t happen,” Simmons says. He pulls Grif down with him until they both lie on the couch, pressed against each other. There isn’t much space, and Grif is pretty sure his leg will suffer a cramp soon, but hey, this is love, right? “I mean, we do have a pretty crazy record. But I’ll be here. And you’ll be here. We’re always together. That’s why we started dating in the first place. Well, that, and because we love each other.”

They kiss again. It’s raw and passionate, like the time in the closet. Grif feels hot and cold all at once as Simmons’ hand press against him, turning him over.

“So even if- if things get crazy and aliens attack or my dad comes or whatever adventure is next, we’ll be there,” Simmons says while be maneuvers himself on top of Grif, resting on his back while he digs his thumbs into his shoulder blades.

The tension disappears under his touch. “Kai always said the best solution to tension is a good massage,” Grif says, fully enjoying this.

“I’ll do that,” Simmons says, leaning near his ear to be sexy. Going against all the logic of the world, it actually works. “And then we’ll need to talk. Probably with Grey, too.”

“Jesus Christ, metal hand!” Grif shrieks when Simmons moves his fingers under his shirt. “You did that on purpose.”

He apologizes with a kiss against his cheek. “You’re not broken,” Simmons tells him. “But it’s okay not to feel alright.”

Delirious with heat and love and the sense of longing, Grif lets himself believe it. It’s a nice thing to hold onto, something steady.

Like Simmons. Something to support him. Something to keep him from spiraling.

A structure. _His _structure.

He thinks of Simmons and his stupid collection of Sci-Fi magazines, how he keeps shifting back and forth between alphabetic or chronical categorization. Simmons, who likes to keep clean and follow orders. Simmons, who wakes him up in the morning.

And that’s structure enough.

“That’s the sappiest shit you’ve ever said to me,” Grif says under Simmons’ grip that is soft and unyielding all at once, keeping him in place.

“Well, you were the one who said it first,” Simmons whispers back to him. He’s a pleasant weight on his back, preventing him fleeing now when all Grif really wants is to stay. Simmons’ fingers hit a sore muscle, and Grif sighs when the pain melts away. “Back when you bandaged my knuckles.”

* * *

The concert is loud and colorful. It’s Kai’s, alright. It’s the very essence of her, screaming it to the world. It’s full of happiness and power and music, and the crowd before them are cheering, drinking and dancing.

This is what Chorus needs after all of this.

Grif and Simmons arrive hand in hand, and Kai pushes her way through the crowd to greet them. There are glow sticks wrapped around her wrists, making her shine.

“You’re looking good,” she tells Grif with a smile and nods towards his outfit.

It’s new. New and clean and Simmons helped him choose it earlier. It’s nothing fancy. A pair of ripped jeans and a shirt with a pattern of green and gold. It doesn’t make him feel sexy, but that was never his goal. He isn’t God’s gift to the world; he isn’t Tucker who needs to show himself off at any moment possible.

But it’s comfortable and it’s new and it feels like him.

And that’s a feeling he hasn’t had in a long time.

“Blasphemy!” Sarge huffs at the lack of orange. It looks like he’s stolen all the red glow sticks available, spilling from his pockets and boots. Some of its fluid is stuck to his face. Grif is pretty sure that’s radioactive, but whatever. At least the old man hasn’t blown up the music here.

“Thank you, Sarge,” Grif says and means it. He feels good. He’s at his sister’s concert with his boyfriend and tomorrow he has a session with Grey where Simmons will come along too. And they’ll talk and it’ll be horribly awkward, but there’s a couch waiting for them at home and a future ahead of them.

It’s still a bit muddled for him, the future, but it’s there and he’ll reach it eventually.

Carolina and Tucker are waiting for him near the stage, dragging instruments with them. Simmons raises his hand in a greeting and does a bad job at pretending he isn’t jealous of their band.

“You ready to go up there?” he asks Grif as he picks up the guitar.

He nods and in a moment of love he decides to extend the olive branch. “You know, next time, maybe, you can get to join us with your lame flute,” he says as tunes his instrument.

Simmons’ face lights up in hopefulness. It’s adorable. It’s a part of why Grif loves him. “Really?”

“No one will hear it over Carolina’s voice,” Grif says with a wink.

Up there on the stage, surrounded by happy Chorusians who are absolutely _stunned _by Carolina’s singing skills, with Kai cheering on him in the crowd, with Simmons looking up at him in pride, Grif fumbles and misses some strings and doesn’t give a shit about it. Drunk with what he is now sure is happiness, Grif breathes out and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this quote from the poem "Happiness" by one of my fave Danish authors:
> 
> _“There’s something special about happiness / you can be wholly glad / when you meet it / but uneasy too / […] you either forget to enjoy your happiness / or get sore over not knowing / how long will it last / so that when adversity finally shows up / it’s a relief / as if you had reached safety / it’s really a shame / because there’s something special about happiness / which you otherwise won’t meet […] we have to become acquainted with it / I think it’s a question of training”_ – Benny Andersen
> 
> Creatrix, this ain't whump, but it sure is something! It turns out that when Grif and Simmons have to discuss feelings, they need at least 10k words! I hope you like it, and I hope you have an awesome day. Love ya <3
> 
> So, yeah, Crea and I have talked a lot about how Simmons has grown a confidence and has sorta become a badass in the last couple of seasons. Meanwhile, Grif has taken quite some beatings when it comes to his own confidence, and I just really wanted to explore that angle. And then I found it interesting to look at a healing Chorus, and how everyone will end up.


End file.
